


Athos has something to tell us

by rimz08



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:47:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rimz08/pseuds/rimz08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from the middle of episode 9, so includes spoilers. How d'Artagnan finds out he has slept with Athos' wife. Includes some good old h/c. There might be a second chapter, not decided yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Athos has something to tell us

**Author's Note:**

> This has been buzzing around in my head for ages and I had almost nothing to do at work today... so.....   
> What is really bothering me though is what the hell was Milady doing walking past the garrison that night? How did they know she would be there? Did they lure her there or did they just do that every night hoping she'd show up. I might write a second part about how they came up with the plan, so suggestions are very welcome. As always I love your reviews....

"Well, it'll certainly be a quieter ride now," comments Porthos, smiling broadly at the bodies of their pursuers strewn across the grass. D'Artagnan smiles back weakly, breathing heavily.

 

Porthos claps him over the shoulder, "Come one, then, we'd better get moving. We have a queen to save."

 

As he turns to mount his horse he notices the younger man's palor and clenched teeth. Porthos strides over to him briskly, grabs his friend's arm and looks him in the eye, worry creasing his brow.

 

"It's nothing," d'Artagnan shakes his head, "just a scratch. Let's go."

 

"Oh no you don't! The others'll kill me if I don't look after our shiniest new recruit. Where?"

 

D'Artagnan points to his upper arm. "The bullet just grazed me. Really," he insists.

 

But Porthos is already tugging at his jacket. Having removed the brown leather coat and linen shirt, he inspects the wound. It really isn't too bad, he admits, the bullet having grazed the arm, not torn through it. But it needs to be cleaned and bandaged. He goes to his saddle bag and takes out a spare shirt, from which he rips a piece of cloth, proceeding to tie it around d'Artagnan's bicep.

 

"We'll ride on and find a stream where we can clean it up. I do have a little experience in this regard, you know."

 

"Just as long as you don't have to knock me out to patch it up!" d'Artagnan laughs, pulling his shirt back on.

 

 

The remainder of the ride is uneventful. They find a small brook where they wash and redress the wound before remounting and urging their horses on at full pace. It's d'Artagnan's first bullet wound, and he is determined to prove himself to his friend, who he has seen suffer through much worse. It hurts, every rise and fall of the horse's sleek body jostles it, but it is bearable.

 

Pausing only to drink and relieve themselves, pouring water over their heads when sleep threatens to claim them, they reach Paris. They ride into the garrison exhausted and dusty, only to find it almost deserted. They spend the next few hours attempting to find out who was behind the plan to assassinate the queen and find a way to ride to their friends' aid, with only themselves, a wounded Treville, the stable boy and the old, retired, musketeers who hang around the garrison to cook and offer (mostly unheeded) advice.

 

Dressed in their blue cloaks they are getting ready to ride back, fresh horses and saddle bags stocked for the journey, when Porthos pulls him aside. "Let me look at your arm before we go," he implores.

 

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan replies. And in truth, he has been so busy that he hasn't thought about it at all. Neither of them has slept in over two days and he feels that if he stops moving now, he might not be able to start again. He needs to keep the adrenalin racing, "We don't have time. Now let's go."

 

"Five minutes won't hurt," the older man claims, although they both know that this is not true and before Porthos knows it, d'Artagnan has mounted his horse and started galloping out of the garrison.

 

 

 

The ride back is at once easier and harder. With the larger group they feel more secure and the conversation helps to keep their spirits up and minds focused. Yet at the same time exhaustion is building up and on a few occasions d'Artagnan finds his eyes drifting closed as he rides, his body falling to the side only to come to with a start, righting himself in the nick of time. He feels shivery in the warm sun and his arm is throbbing horribly, although he can't think about that, with his friends and his queen in danger.

 

The battle at the convent is underway; they can hear it from afar as they approach. They have discussed strategy enough during the ride to be able to throw themselves straight into the thick of things, muskets and swords at the ready.

 

They are outnumbered, but their skill is far superior, and they are quickly inside the building itself. Running down into the cellar, they hear the sounds of more fighting. Porthos and d'Artagnan separate at the foot of the stairs, a quick nod being all the communication necessary between them before they part to the right and the left, taking on their various opponents.

 

D'Artagnan prefers the sword to the musket, and makes quick work of three mercenaries, a fourth running off down the corridor. D'Artagnan gives chase, firing off a musket ball at his prey, but the man is agile and dodges. D'Artagnan feels himself flagging but continues to run, pushing himself harder and following the man as he rushes up another flight of stairs.

 

He is half way up the stone steps, completely focused on his quarry, and hasn't noticed another of the enemy men behind him. A musket shot takes him by surprise, narrowly missing his head, sending pieces of the stone wall flying in all directions.

 

Using the momentary still, the enemy above him turns and fires, the bullet hitting d'Artagnan in the upper chest and sending him sprawling down the stairs. His fall is cushioned by the other bandit near the bottom, who is sent flying into the wall, knocking his head with a sickening crack.

 

D'Artagnan, lying entangled with the other man, sees his enemy descend the stairs. The pain is searing through him but he tries to focus through it, racking his brain as to how he can take the man down. His own musket has no shot in it, nor does that in the hand of the man underneath him. The way he has landed and the pain are making it difficult to reach his sword and maneuver it out of his belt. But then he notices that the unconscious (or dead, d'Artagnan is not sure) man has a back up musket, tucked into his belt. Angling himself in the right way, he is able to grab it and, with a quick prayer that it is primed and ready, in a sudden movement points it towards his attacker, aiming at his chest. His vision is blurring, and he doesn't want to risk missing the head.

 

He releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when he hears the release of the ball, sees the smoke from the gun and feels the recoil, which sends pain through his arm and chest in waves. The man puts his hands to his chest and staggers, crumpling into a heap, while d'Artagnan leans back into his not so soft cushion and lets the darkness take him.

 

 

Outside in the sunlight, Athos holds the box containing Gallagher's coins. There isn't enough there to repair all the damage done to the convent. But Athos thinks that when the mercenary told the mother superior about the box with his dying breath, his intention was perhaps to confess his employer's identity rather than to give charity. Or maybe he is wrong, he is reading too much into a dying man's words. Since how could Gallagher possibly know that he would recognize the forget-me-nots so clearly, that they would stab at his heart like a dagger made of ice?

 

Once the others have recovered from their shock at his announcement and closed their mouths, Treville takes charge. The queen must be returned to Paris immediately. Athos doesn't particularly want Aramis to be the one escorting her back, holding her close to him on his horse, but he can't say that in front of Treville, and so lets it go. On second thoughts, why not give the poor man a few more happy memories, if they are going to hang for them anyway, he thinks to himself ruefully.

 

"D'Artagnan and Porthos can stay here to help the nuns clean up this mess and bury the dead," Treville instructs. The mother superior is grateful for the gesture. Porthos is not best pleased, but neither is he particularly enamored at the idea of another long ride straight away. He is stiff and sore from the hard journeys of the past few days. A warm bath and a bed overnight sound quite attractive, even in a nunnery.

 

He turns around to grab d'Artagnan and start work. The sooner they begin, the sooner that bath and bed will come his way.

 

"Umm, where is d'Artagnan? Trying to make me do all the work huh?" he chuckles, although his voice hides something else, a rising panic.

 

"I haven't seen him since you got here," says Athos, looking around wildly. He has been so occupied with the mercenaries and then the discovery of Anne's involvement that he hadn't even stopped to wonder where his friend is.

 

They spring into action at once, Treville instructing the queen to stay with the mother superior, spreading out over the convent and scouring it, inside and out.

 

It's Athos that finds him. Running down yet another flight of stairs that lead to the complex of tunnels that make up the cellar, he runs into the body of a mercenary, dead from a bullet to the center of his chest. A few steps below he sees d'Artagnan, lying on top of another one of the enemy, limbs entangled, head lolling limply, a red stain blossoming on the top right side of his linen shirt.

 

For a second everything slows down around him. He feels like he is back there again, in the manor house, looking at the body of his brother, lying dead on the cold stone floor, eyes wide and staring without seeing. He died alone, with no one to hold him, only her cruel smile looking down on him.

 

Athos shakes himself. He has to make a quick decision, to check on d'Artagnan or to call for help. Knowing every second can count, he runs up the stairs, screams loudly for his friends, and then barrels down them again, falling to his knees at his friend's side. The first thing he does is check for breath and when he sees the rise and fall of the lad's chest, and feels the breath coming out of his mouth, he too can breathe again.

 

It doesn't take long for the others to arrive, following his shouts, some from the cellars, some from above. He moves out of the way to make room for Aramis, who rips open the shirt to check the wound.

 

"It doesn't look like it hit anything important, but he's losing a lot of blood," he says, shaking his head.

 

The queen, alerted by the shouts, has followed them. Treville tries to usher her away, turning to lead her up the stairs, but instead of going with him demurely, she reaches down to the bottom of her shift and rips away a piece of the silky material, handing it to Aramis.

 

"Here," she tells him, "use this."

 

He takes it from her hand wordlessly, his eyes full of respect and, Treville worries, something else, before bunching it up and pressing it down onto the bloody mess.

D'Artagnan groans in pain but doesn't open his eyes.

 

"He's running a fever too. That's strange, it can't be from this wound. It's too recent," comments Aramis, pressing down on the hole in d'Artagnan's chest.

 

"Idiot boy! Why didn't he tell me?" rages Porthos. "He was shot on the way to Paris. It was just a scratch, and he wouldn't let it stop him."

 

"Stubborn Gascon," Aramis shakes his head again. "We need to move him somewhere that I can remove the bullet and stitch him up." He looks to the mother superior, who has descended the stairs, following the queen. She nods at him in response, indicating that they should follow.

 

Porthos steps in to lift d'Artagnan easily from the floor, Aramis all the while keeping up the pressure on the young man's chest, and they carry him gently up the stairs.

 

The queen, still standing at the bottom of the stone steps, looks at Athos, who is still crouched on the floor, even though the others have taken his friend away. She moves towards him and touches his shoulder.

 

"I believe that he will live," she tells him, "he is strong, and my husband's favorite. Should he die the king would be very angry." She doesn't know what to say, how to offer comfort. Court etiquette doesn't prepare one for situations such as these.

 

But Athos looks at her gratefully. Whatever she has said has helped in some way, has roused him from his thoughts at least.

 

"Thank you, your majesty," he says, leading her up the stairs and out of the dark cellar.

 

 

The change in situation means that Aramis will not be sharing a close ride back to Paris with the queen. Instead, Porthos and Treville will escort her back. Aramis must tend to d'Artagnan and Athos will stay with them. The one silver lining in this very black cloud is that Aramis won't be anywhere near the queen for some time and maybe their chances of avoiding the noose will rise.

 

Anne seems reluctant to leave before Aramis has finished patching up d'Artagnan and she can be assured that he will live. However, after sufficient entreaties and reassurances of the musketeer's skill with a needle, she is persuaded to return to the capital.

 

Athos stands at Aramis' side throughout the process, looking on as he removes the musket ball and closes up the wound with fine stitching. The mother superior brings them water, clean cloth for bandages and compresses. Once he has finished securing the wound, Aramis turns his attention to the one on d'Artagnan's arm, which is red and inflamed.

 

He mutters to himself, as he cleans it and covers it with a salve from his saddle bag.

 

"He'll be the greatest of us all, if he doesn't get himself killed before he has the chance."

 

"I know," Athos concurs, "his stubbornness is second to none, as is his bravado. He may even beat you on risk taking."

 

"He needs something to live for," Aramis remarks, staring at the blood on his hands. And Athos cannot but agree. They had all hoped that when he finally received his commission, d'Artagnan would perhaps exert a little more care, not put himself in harm's way quite so often. Yet while his pauldron made him happy to some degree, it hasn't filled the hole inside him made by his father's death and, more recently, the separation from Constance.

 

Athos sighs and leads Aramis to the table in the corner of the room, where he pours water over the other man's hands and helps him to start scrubbing at the red stains with a wet cloth. Aramis is very skilled as a medic, but not so at detaching himself, and he knows that the blood of their youngest brother is perhaps the most difficult for him to see spilled.

 

"He's just so young," Aramis murmurs.

 

"Come my friend, you need to rest," Athos tells him. All the anger he had felt towards his reckless friend has dissipated completely at the sight of him so lost, so fragile, and he guides him gently to where the nuns have kindly placed a second mattress on the floor of the room. "I will take first watch."

 

 

 

"Hush now, you're going to be just fine," d'Artagnan can hear the words, and the voice is reassuring but there is so much pain and he feels like he is burning, boiling. A cool cloth on his forehead helps a little, but the rest of him feels as though he were on fire. He just wants to go back to the welcoming darkness, but he knows that he needs to open his eyes, to see to whom the voice belongs.

 

"That's it, open your eyes for me," encourages the voice, and he sees Athos, looking down at him with an expression filled with love and concern. He wants to say something, but his lips don't want to cooperate, he wants to reach out for him, but his arms feel like lead.

 

But Athos seems to understand and takes one of his hands, gripping it in his own, which is cool to the touch.

 

"Hush, little brother, it hurts, I know, but it will get better soon," he reassures him.

 

 

They've all been shot, and they've all had fevers, they've nursed each other so many times that they've lost count. And there is no reason that this time shouldn't be any different. But it is. The fear of losing him is so great, that Athos feels it is going to swallow him whole. He can tell that Aramis feels the same, from the way his extroverted friend has turned into himself, like a tortoise hiding in its shell.

 

They sit in silence, picking at food brought to them by the nuns, applying wet cloths to d'Artagnan's burning forehead and chest. They dribble water into his mouth, and a herbal concoction made by the nuns. Aramis leaves to attend Sister Helene's burial, returning even more subdued than before, and Athos worries that he hasn't seen him this withdrawn since Marsac returned, and then died.

 

Athos has never been good at comforting others. With dry quips, jokes and teasing he is second to none, but helpful comments and sympathy are something else entirely.

 

"He'll be okay, you know, he's strong," is the best he can, but even to his own ears it sounds ridiculous. Aramis just snorts. He sits back in his chair and sticks his legs up on the end of the bed.

 

"I'm sorry, for…well…you know, what happened," he says. Now it is Athos' turn to roll his eyes and snort.

 

"Maybe, maybe this is…well it's my fault," he looks at Athos, his eyes questioning.

 

"How? Did you shoot him?" Athos raises an eyebrow.

 

"No, but first Isabelle was killed and then…I did what I did…and, I've done a lot of bad things, Athos. They don't go unpunished, you know," Athos can see that he is holding the queen's rosary in his hand, contemplating it.

 

"We’ve all done bad things, Aramis, we all make mistakes. Some admittedly more than others. It makes us human."

 

"Yes, man was born into sin," he muses, "are you as kind to yourself as you are to me?" Aramis asks him pointedly "Can you forgive yourself for what happened with your wife?"

 

They are both startled from their conversation by a weak voice from the bed.

 

"You told him about your wife?" asks d'Artagnan.

 

Athos and Aramis spring up, Aramis stumbling in the hurry to get his feet of the bed, and are at d'Artagnan's side.

 

"How are you feeling?" Athos asks.

 

"His fever's gone down a lot," Aramis comments.

 

"And the wound looks better," adds Athos.

 

"When you're both quite finished, could I get a drink? My throat is really dry."

 

Slightly abashed, Athos brings him some water and helps him sit up a little to drink.

 

"So…um… how much of that conversation did you hear?"

 

"Some ramblings about sin and then the bit about Athos' wife. I thought only I knew about her. Not that I have a prerogative on his secrets or anything," adds d'Artagnan, not wanting to seem offended, "I was just wondering what happened."

 

"It's a long story. Everyone knows now. Even the stable boy," Athos grumbles, which is quite true.

 

"Maybe you'll tell me later. I think I want to sleep again. Sorry…"

 

"You sleep, there'll be enough time to talk about everything," Aramis reassures him.

 

"'kay," d'Artagnan mumbles sleepily, "thanks, by the way, for looking after me."

 

"That's what brothers do," Athos tells him, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

 

"Although brothers also tell each other when something is wrong so that injuries don't get so out of hand," notes Aramis somewhat forcefully.

 

D'Artagnan cracks his eyes open again. "Sorry, I just wanted to do my best. I wanted you to be proud," he is looking at Athos and the older man can tell that he is half asleep and still feverish, he would never say these things if he was fully awake. "What would you think of me complaining about a little scratch when the queen is in danger?"

 

"Oh d'Artagnan," sighs Athos, stroking his hair, "whatever are we to do with you little brother?"

 

"Never let him forget this. And remember that when feverish and tired he tells the truth! This could be useful in the future," crows Aramis happily, and Athos is relieved to see both his friends returning. Now he only needs Porthos to come back and things will be perfect.

 

 

 

The next time d'Artagnan wakes, he finds only Athos at his bedside, staring at a fabric box in his hands.

 

"What's that?" he asks.

 

"Hmm," says Athos, roused from his reverie, "the box Gallagher's money was in. It belonged to my wife. It's how we know she, and thus the cardinal, was involved," he hands it to d'Artagnan.

 

D'Artagnan looks at it, turning it over in his hands. When he sees the forget-me-not symbol on the lid of the box his face visibly pales and his hand starts to shake.

 

"What is it? Are you in pain?" Athos rushes to his side.

 

D'Artagnan shakes his head, trying to collect his thoughts. "No, no…., it can't be."

 

If he could, he would jump out of this bed and the window right now.

 

"Oh heavens above, Athos, oh no, oh no," he keeps repeating, rocking backwards and forwards.

 

He has betrayed Athos, the man he looks up to most in the world. He has slept with his evil, murdering wife. This is a sin that can never be forgiven. He will lose everything. But he also cannot lie. Not about this.

 

Athos is visibly concerned now, "Whatever has happened. Shall I get Aramis?" he asks.

 

"No," says the younger man,  "It's just, it's too horrible, I…" he pauses.

 

"Whatever it is, it can't be that bad," Athos tries to calm him.

 

"But it is! It is! I… the woman, the one I had unfinished business with…who tried to frame me for murder…it was her! She left forget-me-nots on my pillow!" There are tears running down d'Artagnan's cheeks now and he is sobbing uncontrollably, his breathing hitching horribly.

 

Athos looks at him for a few moments in silence. His first instinct is of course to be angry and jealous. D'Artagnan has slept with Anne, his wife. But then he looks at the state into which the boy has worked himself up over this, and he lets the rational side of him recall that not only did d'Artagnan not know who she was, he hadn't even meet Athos at that point. And this is Anne, the seductress and murderer, to whose charms he himself and succumbed. Most of all, he thinks, he doesn't want to lose another little brother over this.

 

"D'Artagnan," he tells him talking slowly and clearly, "Breathe, now. Just breathe." Athos places his hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders and looks into his eyes. "This is not your fault. You fell into the trap she set for you. As did I. What does it say that neither of us could resist her charms? It makes us the same, do you hear? I am not angry with you."

 

He's scared to believe it, to trust his ears, and he is so tired, so bone tired, and in so much pain, and he's betrayed Athos the man he trusts and looks up to most in the world and it's all too much to think about. He lets himself be pushed back gently against the pillows and sinks into Athos' touch.

 

"How can you ever forgive me?"

 

"Forgive you? Are you mad? What can there possibly be to forgive? You didn't even know me yet, you had just lost your father, and you have straight away told me the truth. Did she turn you against me? Did she ruin you, turn you to work for the cardinal? No. You are a fine man and an even better brother."

 

At that moment Aramis bursts through the door, clutching bunches of herbs, smiling brightly. "Look, I found these in the garden, we can distill them to make a painkiller. And even better, Porthos is back. He's tying up his horse now. Although he's going to be complaining of a sore backside for a long….." He stops abruptly, taking in the scene in front of him.

 

"What an earth is going on? Has he taken a turn for the worse?"

 

"D'Artagnan needs to rest. I think a painkiller or a sleeping draught would be a good idea," Athos tells him, indicating with a look that whatever is wrong will not be discussed further now.

 

"Right," says Aramis, putting down the herbs and going to his supplies. He pulls out a small bottle and adds a few drops into a glass of water. "Here, drink this," he says, proffering the cup, "it will help you sleep."

 

D'Artagnan's hands are shaking too much to hold the cup, so Athos brings it to his lips and helps him to drink. When the last drop is gone, he returns the cup to Aramis and starts to rise from the bed. But a hand grabs onto him. He looks back at his friend and sees the fear in his eyes, the fear of being abandoned, left alone.

 

Sighing, Athos gets up, gently shifts d'Artagnan over a little in the bed, then kicks off his boots and sits back down next to the younger man. "See, I'm not leaving. I'm not walking away. I'll be here, right here, when you wake up, unless you push me out of the bed, in which case I'll be on the floor." D'Artagnan manages a slight smile at that and seems to relax a little, although it's some time before he falls asleep.

 

"Are you really going to stay like that?" Aramis whispers later, when he is sure that the boy is finally sleeping.

 

"I rather think I have little choice," grumbles Athos, looking down at his arm, which d'Artagnan is still clinging on to in his sleep.

 

A few minutes later the door opens and Porthos enters, only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of Athos on the bed with d'Artaganan. Aramis simply shrugs his shoulders in response to his questioning glance. "I think Athos has something he needs to tell us…"

 

"Oh shut up Aramis!" Athos mutters darkly, "you have such a dirty mind. As it happens the boy is having a crisis because it appears that he slept with my no longer dead wife. Now, if you don't mind, I think I may take this opportunity to sleep as well."

 

"Or in other words, subject closed?" pushes Aramis.

 

"Until further notice," nods Athos, closing his eyes and leaning back into the pillows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
